


Loose Tongues & Blue Dresses

by notebooksandlaptops



Series: The Mage, the Bard and the Witcher drabbles [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (also not a tag but it SHOULD be), (that is not a tag but it NEEDS to be), BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Betaed, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Jaskier is a little shit, M/M, Minor Angst, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Season/Series 01, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion, Undercover Missions, for once, he's beauty, jaskier in a dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notebooksandlaptops/pseuds/notebooksandlaptops
Summary: Let it never be said that Jaskier is useless. Perhaps he can't wield a sword like Geralt, perhaps he can't do magic like Yennefer, but he has his own set of skills that are equally vital when it comes to winning this war.And Jaskier was rather enjoying this role if he did say so himself. Perhaps it was a little unpleasant to have the Kings filthy hands all over him but the silks and finery, the dresses and the makeup, finally getting to put his long hair to good use, getting to shave off that awful beard he’d been sporting?Definitely fun.-///-Or, the one where Jaskier wears a dress in order to infiltrate a court
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: The Mage, the Bard and the Witcher drabbles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1649053
Comments: 92
Kudos: 1223





	Loose Tongues & Blue Dresses

“We never should have let him do this. Where the _fuck_ is he?”

The dripping finery of the court they stood in was above mere opulence; it was sickening golden, shimmering silks and women stained with glittering jewels. One would never believe that outside these walls a war was being fought. Arrogant nobles, walling themselves in with music and revelry so loud they couldn’t hear the common folks screams.

And somewhere _– somewhere_ – within these walls, was Jaskier.

If he wasn’t already locked in some dungeon. If he hadn’t already been found out.

They never should have let him fucking do this. Geralt was supposed to _protect_ the damn fool, not send him into a pit of vipers and hope that for all his stumbling clumsiness he made it out alive.

If Jaskier had gotten himself killed playing ‘undercover spy’ …

“We said we’d trust him,” Yennefer spoke softly, her arm in Geralt’s as they stuck to the edge of the grand hall. Despite all outward appearances stating the contrary, Geralt knew that she was just as tense as him. He could feel it where her hand dug just a little too hard into the crook of his elbow, where her smile was just a little too practised, a little too sharp.

Geralt had long since given up on working out the _exact_ dynamic of Yennefer and Jaskier’s relationship, but the love they held for one another was beyond refute.

She was just as worried about their bard as Geralt was.

“He _guilted_ us into trusting him,” Geralt grunted back, “If he’s—”

“He’s fine.” And there was a firmness to her tone that brokered no argument. It was a firmness that Geralt would almost have been able to put his faith in – when Yennefer commanded, it was hard to not bow to her words - if he didn’t know just how dangerous this whole fucking mess was.

Here they were, in a room full of some of the most important people on the continent and, more importantly, some of the most important people to the resistance, in the court of a King who might very well be using all his good graces and glamour to hide the fact that he was working for Nilfguard.

Geralt went to open his mouth again but, before he could, the music played by a bard who was very much _not_ Jaskier stopped and the people halted their dancing. A goddamn _trumpet_ sounded (how self-entitled did you have to be?) as the doors heaved open to reveal the King.

Begrudgingly, Geralt forced himself to drop to his knees with the rest of them.

This wasn’t worth it. This pot-bellied scumbag wasn’t worth the risk to Jaskier’s life.

“We find him, and we leave.” Geralt muttered finally, as the King took his seat on the throne, clearly enjoying the rapt attention of all those in attendance.

“Agreed,” Yennefer accepted finally, her violet eyes moving back forward just in time to catch the three stunningly pretty girls coming out from some door in the back wall, their delicate hands the only real movement in the hall as they attended to the King.

Geralt watched them too, watched as they poured the King’s wine for him, as they draped themselves over him like house cats. At their necks, chokers marked them; and they could embed all the jewels in the world into their flimsy silk but that wouldn’t make them look anything less like collars. It was yet another ludicrously vain show of power and wealth. 

“My fine friends!” The king announced, sweeping his hand back. He might have come across as perfectly handsome were it not for the ever so prideful look in his eyes. This wasn’t a man who would tolerate being crossed. This was a man who believed, wholeheartedly, with an arrogance only humans could produce, that he was _better_ than everyone who had the sordid misfortune to grace his presence. “I have gathered you all here today – some of the finest men and women in the land – to celebrate despite these dark times. I ask you to enjoy yourselves! We all need light in these trying times, and _I_ am happy to gift it to you.”

There _were_ many men and women from all over gathered here tonight. Scholars from Oxenfurt, mages from Aretuza, lords and ladies from all the high courts of the Northern Kingdoms. Geralt wondered how many of them suspected what he and Yennefer did – that this man was working with Nilfguard. Did they truly think they could trust him in this circus of decadence that had been laid out enticingly for a private showing?

The woman in yellow at the King’s side handed him a wine glass, and he held it high, “a toast! To the prosperity of our continent!”

A young boy with a round face appeared at Geralt’s side, offering a tray of wine goblets for the both of them to participate in raising them. Begrudgingly, Geralt took a sip of the red stuff in his goblet, resisted the urge to spit it out.

Lazily, and with the sure knowledge of the court’s eyes on him, the King ran a hand through one of his girl's mousy brown hair, idly disrupting the blue ribbons she had tied into it without a care. She had her face turned to him, posture docile, the blue of her dress striking against her pale skin as she turned her own bow into a simple kneel, resting there by the throne. Power – it was all a damn show of power.

“Let the revelries continue!” The king announced and Geralt watched how the girl in blue tilted her head back in a laugh, further exposing the sapphires on the choker about her throat.

The music started up again. The talking. The dancing. A masquerade about them that seemed far too perfect to ever be innocent.

“We’re idiots. How the fuck did we let him talk us into this?”

_How indeed?_

-///-

“We have no proof and even if we did—it’d do us a fuck load of good if we don’t know what he’s planning on doing _for_ Nilfguard if he _is_ working with them,” Yennefer spoke, her hands clutching at the invite they’d received.

“He’s inviting some of the most powerful people on the continent to his banquet, he could just be planning a massacre,” Geralt grunted from his place beside her, her body leaned _just so_ into his. It was a nice view, Jaskier thought, even if what Geralt said was about as thought out as a poor man entering a dice game with the last of his coin he had to spend on food.

Ciri snorted at the same time Jaskier did. Jaskier felt a wave of pride for the girl. She, at least, understood court politics far better than their dear Witcher.

“He wouldn’t get away with it, and it wouldn’t serve him well. If he’s smart, they’ll be no massacre – and he _must be_ smart, if he’s managed to convince everyone that he’s not working for them when he is,” Ciri said, primly, beginning to plait another strand of Jaskier’s hair.

He and Ciri were sat closer to the fire than the other two, the girl still drying off after the rare gifted luxury of a bath earlier that evening. Jaskier’s hair had, alas, gotten a lot longer in the past six months. Little time for such luxuries as a proper haircut and a shave when one was fighting a war – and Jaskier had adamantly refused to let Geralt go near his locks with a dagger for fear he’d make him look like some poor beggar man.

Besides, it was better to slip by unnoticed nowadays. While he wasn’t _quite_ as memorable as his travelling companions (he was no princess, nor mage, nor witcher), he _had_ made something of a name for himself in his time. Some areas of the continent knew him better than others. This way, barely anyone noticed him at all. He’d even taken to keeping a trimmed beard to play up the disguise. Jaskier the Bard, after all, was a baby-faced clean-shaven charmer – not a gruff-looking bearded man.

“But he’s planning something,” Yennefer said, “and we can’t let him go through with it, whatever it is. Some of the most prominent members of the resistance will be at this banquet – and this won’t be the only thing he’s doing. We need to get our hands on details, plans, correspondences.”

“We need someone to infiltrate the court,” Jaskier spoke finally. “In short, we’re after a spy.”

“We can’t hire a fucking spy, there’s nobody we can trust,” Geralt sounded more frustrated than usual. It didn’t surprise Jaskier. This was the first proper lead they’d had in _months._ They’d expected to come down from Kaer Morhen and immediately get into the action, but instead, it had turned into a waiting game. And Jaskier loved Geralt with all his heart, but he couldn’t deny that witchers weren’t really built for the politics of an invasion like the one Nilfguard was carrying out.

“Uh, that’s just plain rude,” Jaskier put a hand to his chest in mock offence.

“Oh, and you know someone do you?” Yennefer raised an eyebrow.

“You’re looking at them, darling.”

Geralt and Yennefer stared. Jaskier even felt Ciri freeze behind him.

“No. Don’t be ridiculous, Jaskier,” Geralt grunted.

“I’m _not._ ” And now he wasn’t just mock offended.

“Sorry, dearheart, but Geralt is right. You’re about as sneaky as a full plated battle horse – and not near as skilled at the art of war,” Yennefer tutted.

And _hey._ That just wasn’t fair. Maybe he couldn’t fight the way they could but— “I understand courts,” more than either of them possibly knew, with his upbringing, “and more than that, I understand _charm._ I’ve been slotting myself into beds across the continent for decades. And I’m _good_ at lying. Geralt still thinks my given name is Jaskier.”

“ _What_?”

“Lying to Geralt is a little bit different than lying to a court,” Yennefer cut in smoothly. “There are other ways. With a glamour on my appearance, I could go.”

“Oh please,” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Yen, darling, I love you, but even _with_ a glamour, I don’t think you could play a meek, mild little courtier for longer than a few days. And if we do this, it’ll be almost a month of situating myself into the court before that banquet,” he gestured to the letter in her hands.

Geralt’s voice was a little louder than usual when he cut in, angry. “We are _not_ throwing you into a court that’s allied with Nilfguard. What if they catch you? You’re known to be affiliated withYen and me. If they don’t manage to get information out of you, they’ll put you up for blackmail.”

 _And the blackmail would work,_ was what Geralt wasn’t saying. Jaskier might have fallen in love with two people rather allergic to admitting how much they cared, but he _knew_ they did. They’d come for him.

But they could only come for him if he got _caught._ Which he wouldn’t.

Jaskier sighed, feeling incredibly put on. Did his lovers not _trust_ him? He could do this – he knew he could. Maybe he wasn’t as brave as them when it came to a sword, nor as skilled in a battle, but he knew how to get on someone’s good side far better than anyone else here could claim to.

“I won’t be _going_ in as Jaskier the Bard. I’ll be going in _undercover._ ”

“You won’t be going in at all,” and oh, Geralt was _growling_ now, giving his best scary face. Unfortunately for him, Jaskier had never found much to be scared of when it came to Geralt, and he’d become immune to that look about two months into their acquaintance. 

“I _will_ because we don’t have a choice,” Jaskier said, “We need to know – we need the upper hand. We’ve had piss all luck for _months._ We _know_ Nilfguard is planning to move in on the northern courts soon, and we don’t have a flying fuck where they’re going to strike, or how, or if they’re still looking for Cirilla. We _need_ this. And like you said, there’s nobody else you can trust.”

Geralt looked like he wanted to storm out. Yennefer looked…pensive, so at least she was thinking about it, but also sceptical – that perfectly raised eyebrow showed that.

Behind him, Ciri finished braiding his hair.

“You _are_ charming,” she said softly. “But I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

He turned to her. “I’m always getting into trouble, sweetheart. Might as well be a helpful sort, hm?”

And he’d win this. He was _sick_ of feeling so goddamn useless – which is how he’d felt recently since they’d left Kaer Morhen and come to play a more decisive role in the war. He knew he could do this – he wasn’t going to let Yen and Geralt’s overprotection get the better of him. He wasn’t a child – he was a full-grown man. And he was going to help.

-///-

It had become rather glaringly obvious that Jaskier was nowhere to be found in the banquet hall.

Yennefer was not a woman who panicked. She would not panic over this. She wasn’t _Geralt._ Jaskier could be a dumb fuck at the best of times, but he was also smarter than they often gave him credit for. There was no need to panic.

Except—

They’d cut off all contact with him when they finally agreed to let him go into this. They’d had to – it would have been far, far more dangerous for him if they hadn’t. And yet, now she wished that she had _something._ Some little scrap of knowledge that he hadn’t been quietly beheaded on his first day in the court.

And the thing was that if Jaskier _had_ done his job properly, he’d be somewhere near the King right now. He wouldn’t be hard to find, he’d be up near the throne as some trusted adviser. At the very least, he could have positioned himself as the court bard. Yet it seemed that the King didn’t have _any_ men near him at all. He’d been attended to all evening by the three women who he’d entered with; the one in yellow, the one in red and the one in blue – a living triad of the colours of the crest of this kingdom.

Clearly, the King got off on all their fawning, on having his bedazzled pets up there for all to see their blind devotion. Yennefer had seen him whisper in their ears more than once. Now if _they_ were the spies, they’d have some useful information no doubt. But would _Jaskier_?

This was too much risk, for too little gain.

“Where the _fuck_ is he?” Geralt was muttering at her side. She could feel his terror bleeding off of him – hidden behind frustration and anger. He wasn’t in his element here, in the finery and the silks. He was out of sorts in too many ways, tonight; without his armour and without his bard.

It wasn’t too surprising. One would have to be a blind fool not to see how Geralt and Jaskier cared about one another. In fact, they were probably the last people on the continent who realised Geralt was so far gone on the bard that Jaskier could bat his pretty eyelashes and ask for a kingdom and Geralt would do his best to get it for him.

And now? Now that they were actually together and Geralt had a possessive claim on the man?

Geralt would burn this ballroom to the ground to get to Jaskier.

But it wouldn’t help. Not if they couldn’t locate him.

She took a deep breath, squeezing his arm. “If we draw attention to ourselves, it will do nothing to help.”

She had been invited, but they were counting on a glamour hiding Geralt’s hair colour to keep his presence out of the limelight. He was supposed to be playing some backwater noble that Yen had picked up, not a vengeful Witcher here to save his lover.

“I knew he was more trouble than he was worth when we met,” Geralt was growling low.

“He’s not more trouble than he’s worth. He’s just worth an awful lot of trouble,” she murmured, surprised at her own affectionate tone. Perhaps that was what came with knowing that Jaskier might be bleeding out dead somewhere—

“Yennefer!” There was a croak of a voice from nearby, one she recognised far too well.

Ah, _shit._

“Master Krystian,” Yennefer spoke, a practised smile gracing her face.

“I wasn’t sure you would make it, my dear,” Krystian’s old face was a pocket of dimples and – true to form – he carried a few books under his arms. _Professors._ She’d known him back in her time at Aiden and though he’d been only a boy when they were in regular contact with one another, he’d had the pompous self-isolated nature of an academic even then.

Well. At least he hadn’t grown up too badly. He was an integral part of the Nilfguard resistance in Oxenfurt. Even if he _was_ an annoying old fart. Old men locked away in their schools, pretending they knew jack shit about the world at large when they’d barely even _seen_ it.

“We thought it apt I come,” Yennefer replied.

“Ah, yes. There are quite a few of us here,” Krystian took a sip of his wine. “I wonder if the King is planning on holding some meeting – he might be interested in joining the resistance. Nilfguard won’t give him this opulence if they come to power.”

Yennefer blinked. To talk so openly about the resistance—was this man more fool than scholar? Then again, all scholars were fools, she supposed. “We wouldn’t be so sure.”

Krystian continued like he hadn’t heard her, “Or perhaps he’s simply trying to show off those pretty young things,” Krystian’s eyes moved to the throne where the three young women were still all over the King. “Ah, to be able to afford such luxuries as them, hm? Hopefully, he’ll let them come down and play.”

And then the old arse was off, slipping through the crowds and back towards the trays of wine.

“Is he usually such a talkative horny bastard?” Geralt asked, voice a low rumble of disapproval. 

Yennefer shook her head. She had not thought so – but then, most men tended to think with their cocks at least some of the time. “I do not know him well enough. But considering his position in the resistance one would hope not. Arse.”

“Hm.”

At the high table, the girls finally slid from the King’s side. Yennefer didn’t miss the way he petted the one in blues backside as she went on her way, staking, claiming, eying up the crowd as if _daring_ them to be too liberal in their indulgence of his clear favourites.

Yennefer tapped her foot, watching as the one in red asked a sprite young thing to the floor, the man – not much more than a boy – almost spilling his wine over her in shock. “If we wanted to find people who knew the goings-on of the court—”

“The kings’ mistresses would be a good place to start.” Geralt was already walking towards them.

“Careful,” She pulled his arm back, “You’ll get your head chopped off if you’re seen to make advances too readily. Let them come to us.”

“This is taking too fucking long,” Geralt growled.

“It will take longer if we’re tossed out of here without Jaskier in tow. ”

How the fuck they _were_ going to get the attention of one of the girls was quite beyond Yennefer, but it was their best bet all the same. No doubt they’d manage something, even if Yennefer had to direct their attention with a little magic. Her violet eyes sought where they had gotten to – the girl in red was still humiliating the young man, the girl in yellow was chatting amiably to some women in the far corner and the girl in blue--

“My Lord and Lady,” a soft whisper-thin voice spoke behind them, melodious almost in its infection.

Geralt and Yennefer both turned.

And there she was; the girl in blue. She was even more stunning up close, though her face was layered in make-up and her eyes were downcast in the pretence of humility – as if she hadn’t just been up there practically in the king’s lap for the whole room to see. Her hair was worn in a beautiful updo, something with ribbons like Jaskier often bought for Ciri to tie in her hair.

“Might I trouble your partner to a dance, my lady? He’s awfully _dashing,_ ” the girl purred, stepping forward into Geralt’s space and placing her hand on Geralt’s arm. She looked…coy, almost.

Yennefer saw the slight panic in Geralt’s eyes – unused to such advances, as he was. She almost snorted, had to stifle it down. This was important. If Geralt could get her dancing, perhaps he could get her _talking._ And the sooner they did that, the sooner they found Jaskier, the sooner they got out of here.

“You can call me Buttercup,” the girl murmured, finally turning her eyes up and meeting Yennefer’s and then Geralt’s. Stunning blue eyes; beautiful blue that matched the colour of her choker.

Blue eyes that Yennefer was, in fact, all too familiar with.

“And I think I have something for you.” The girl murmured, a sparkle of mischief in the corner of her lips.

Holy _shit._

_Jaskier._

-///-

They didn’t have time to talk to old scholars about Oxenfurt, didn’t have time to waste trying to play up the pretence of mildly interested courtiers.

Jaskier had been here for three weeks. Alone. And if something had happened to him Geralt would never forgive himself. If the king’s glorified whores knew where the bard might be, he wasn’t interested in playing cat and mouse for such information. He wanted it _now._

“My lord and lady,” Geralt whipped his head around at the voice, surprised that she had managed to sneak up on them. Few could manage that, though occasionally Jaskier and Ciri did. This woman - one of the king's pets and playthings, dressed up like a dog in silk - held the art too.

“Might I trouble your partner to a dance, my lady? He’s awfully _dashing,_ ” the girl purred, seemingly ignorant of the tension in Geralt’s shoulders, of the anger he could feel in his every step through this blasted banquet. Her hand slipped up to his arm, and it surprised him to find they were almost at a height. She was good at making herself appear smaller.

“You can call me Buttercup,” she spoke, raising her head just so, to finally meet their gaze, “And I think I have something for you.”

And oh.

_Oh._

“Fuck,” Geralt breathed.

_Fuck._

In all the continent, there was not a place he would not recognise those eyes. He knew them as they shone with mischief, as they sang, as they laughed, as they fluttered closed in rapturous pleasure. He _knew_ them.

“What the—”

“Ah, ah,” Jaskier – _Buttercup –_ shushed him with a finger on Geralt's lips for just for a second, quick to remove it with a quick glance to the throne. “We wouldn’t want to draw a scene. The king is _awfully_ fond of me. Although—I could perhaps be tempted away from his side by someone more…hmm...pig-headed and annoying, perhaps? Stubborn and strong? I always did have a thing for _bad_ boys.” Jaskier’s eyes strayed to Yennefer, offering her a wink “And bad _girls_ too.”

How the fuck was Jaskier playing _coy_ right now? Geralt was still—he couldn’t—

Jaskier barely looked anything like himself.

He was wearing women's clothes. He was wearing a _dress._ Finery and jewels. He’d raised his voice a little higher, spoke in such whispered tones that one would hardly think anything was out of place. And the make-up…red stained lips, blue smoked eyes.

Geralt couldn’t—

It was—

_Fuck._

Geralt opened his mouth but couldn’t even find his customary ‘hmm’.

“What are you suggesting?” Yennefer was the one to speak, regaining herself better though Geralt could hear something in her voice that was perhaps shock, perhaps something more…fascinated, deeper, the tone she used when Geralt wore something particularly tight, or Jaskier ran his fingers over her shoulders in promise.

“Perhaps you’d be happy to steal me away after a quick dance, my Lord?” Geralt’s eyes searched Jaskier’s. There was _mischief_ there. He was _enjoying_ this.

_Bastard._

“Come on,” Jaskier hurried, when Geralt _still_ didn’t react, “us girls don’t get much time away from the crown these days.” Jaskier _winked_ again, pulling on Geralt’s arm. Geralt let himself be dragged to the dance floor

He was rather regretting all the decisions of his life that led him to his moment.

At least…the view wasn’t too bad. Though when his eyes landed on the choker he wanted to rip it from the bard's neck. The bard was not a dog to be collared. His bard did not _belong_ to the nobility, could not be bought with pretty jewels.

Jaskier was _his._ His and Yen’s alone. Not some entitled Kings.

“Jaskier,” he breathed into Jaskier’s ear, “what are you playing at?”

“It’s _Buttercup._ Gods, you’re awful at this,” Jaskier accused, rolling his eyes as if _Geralt_ was the one being out of place here when it was Jaskier in the splendidly fitted gown and make-up. “And it’s not _playing_ – though I _do_ like the finery of a woman’s evening gown.” Geralt lifted his arm as Jaskier spun under it. “I’m _working._ ”

Geralt grunted. _Working._ Right. That’s why the King’s hands were all over him, why Geralt had to stop himself from cutting those damn hands off for all the liberties they must have taken in the past two weeks.

“We won’t have long,” Jaskier breathed, as Geralt pulled him close again. He could smell the soft oils Jaskier had used – more floral than his usual scent. “There’s an alcove to your left. Take me there and put your hands up my skirt.”

Geralt’s mind went blank momentarily.

Not because he _wanted_ to do just that. No, certainly not. He _hadn’t_ been thinking about it since he realised this was Jaskier, because they had more important things to focus on than how _hot_ Jaskier looked, how _tempting._ Just—

“Oh, get your mind out of the gutter,” Jaskier murmured, though there was laughter in his voice, “We need a cover. The correspondences with Nilfguard are up there. He _is_ working for them.”

“Up _there_?”

“Where else was I supposed to hide them, hm? Come along, Geralt, we haven’t got all day. Hands-on my waist, act like you want me. Not,” Jaskier ghosted lips over Geralt’s jawline, teasing and plump, painted a deep red to contrast the blue he was wearing, “that that should be hard.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt breathed, walking Jaskier backwards. “I do want you.” And he hadn’t _meant_ to say that, but—“You look…gorgeous, like this.” He frowned. He wasn’t usually so expressive.

Jaskier gave him an odd look as they got to the hallway Jaskier had been speaking of, the curtain, the tapestry. They were hidden away in the alcove like this, away from the prying eyes of anyone at the banquet.

Dainty hands with _painted nails_ touched Geralt's shoulder, pushed him to his knees. Geralt found himself going willingly as Jaskier’s hands reached to hike up the deep blue skirt and lace he had on. “The king is still planning something tonight. But he hasn’t told us what. He’s hinted, though, that we’d _learn_ something tonight. Did you bring a weapon?”

And the fact that Jaskier could be all _business_ like this, while Geralt reached beneath the skirt, almost tempted to touch higher but—no, not yet, not _now._ He instead found the place where the letters were tucked, pulling them out and stuffing them into his pocket. “Of course I brought a damn weapon,” hidden in the folds of the cloak he was wearing.

“Good. We might need it.” Jaskier pulled him up again, “Now, admit it. I’ve done an excellent job. You’re impressed with me.”

Geralt frowned. “You’ve done…better than I expected.”

“Hmm, it was hard, I admit. When I found out the King only accepts serving from his _concubines._ But I think it worked quite well. He’s quite taken with me – says that I’ll be so impressed tonight I’ll seal the deal. Not sure he’s expecting a cock when he finally gets his hands where he wants them, but I’m so sweet I wonder if he’d even mind.”

Geralt growled.

“Possessive,” Jaskier laughed, “hot,” he tucked himself closer, “Kiss me for luck?”

How the fuck was Geralt supposed to resist that?

Jaskier’s lips tasted like Yennefer’s, and for a moment he wondered why but _ah,_ because of the _paint._ He was intoxicating this way, Geralt found. Hm. Interesting.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’d rather the King didn’t take your head because he thought you were spending too long with me. I’ll be back by your side by the time we are supposed to leave.”

And then he disappeared, blue fabric trailing behind him.

Geralt leant his head back on the wall behind him.

_Fuck._

That bard was going to be the _death_ of him.

-///-

“More wine, Lady Yennefer?”

Yennefer held out her goblet to the young boy without much thought. Her mind was – admittedly – focused on _other_ things. Jaskier had pulled through rather _exquisitely_ with this one, she was forced to admit. But more than that…

Well, Geralt wasn’t the only one who had been oh so clearly…interested…in what he saw from their bard.

She adjusted her dress a little, thinking about Jaskier’s own satin blue against soft skin.

“Upset the man who accompanied you has chosen one of the King’s jewels to grace his evening?”

Yennefer turned to the man doing the questioning. He was innocuous, wearing the colours of the King but otherwise just some page boy or man at court.

“No,” she shrugged. Perhaps she _was_ the jealous sort, but it had been over a year since she’d held any contempt for Jaskier and Geralt together. No, she was just jealous that Jaskier had pulled _Geralt_ off instead of her.

“Ah,” the man sighed, “well. Are you at least looking forward to the speeches? The King is giving quite a few notables a place to talk. I’m sure he’d offer you the same if you want me to put your name down…”

Yennefer shot him a withering look. Usually, lesser men couldn’t stand to be in her presence for very long. It wounded their fragile egos that a beauty such as her could not be controlled or bought. This one though seemed annoyingly persistent. Her eyes tracked back to the dance floor, but Geralt and Jaskier were no longer on it. Hm.

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” she spoke, when the boy _still_ seemed to be waiting for an answer.

“Okay. Say, we never did get the name of your guest, Lady Yennefer?”

Was he never going to leave her be? Didn’t he have more important people to pester? “Geralt. Geralt of Rivia,” she murmured.

“The _Witcher._ How interesting. Well, if you’ll excuse me.”

Yennefer paused.

Blinked.

_Shit._

Why the fuck had she said that? Why the fuck would she—if the King _was_ working with Nilfguard and knew Geralt was here, then this whole banquet would go to shit. Everyone knew Geralt was protecting Cirilla and everyone knew how much Nilfguard wanted their hands on the girl.

“Oh, and of course, there aren’t many of us resistance folk _at_ Oxenfurt, but we number in the few dozens now, if you count some of our student body—”

She whipped her head. Master Krystian, speaking rather loudly and openly about the Resistance with another boy serving wine.

Geralt appeared at her side a moment later. “Jaskier is a _menace._ ”

“Geralt,” she breathed, feeling a gradual horror dawning on her, “Geralt, what’s the name you wanted to call yourself when you first became a Witcher? The one that Vesemir kept threatening to tell us when we were last at Kaer Morhen?”

“Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarade.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

_Fuck._

“Did Jaskier say what the plan was for tonight?” Yennefer asked, dread building to an almost deafening din.

“The King said that he’d learn something tonight.” Geralt frowned. “Yen. What is going on?”

“It’s in the wine,” she breathed. “He’s fucking spiked. Geralt, he’s fucking put a _truth_ potion in it. And he’s got the most prominent members of the resistance here—”

“Fuck,” Geralt grunted, glancing around, his shoulders suddenly tense.

They had to get these people out of here.

They had to get them out of here right now.

-//-

Jaskier was rather enjoying this role if he did say so himself. Perhaps it was a little unpleasant to have the Kings filthy hands all over him but the silks and finery, the dresses and the makeup, finally getting to put his long hair to good use, getting to shave off that awful beard he’d been sporting?

Definitely fun.

And Geralt’s expression when he realised who dear _Buttercup_ was?

Jaskier wished he could have that expression painted on canvas, it was so delightful.

He twirled a strand of hair around his finger as he bounded back up to the King, pressing painted lips against the bastard's cheek in a sickly sweet display of affection.

“They’re all so _boring_ down there,” he pouted, internally rather proud with how the King’s eyes dipped down to his lips. Tempting to all sorts, he was. Witchers, mages, kings… and Geralt and Yennefer thought that he _couldn’t_ do this a few weeks ago. Idiots, the both of them.

“Ah, dear Buttercup, you have no idea how _interesting_ they’re about to be.”

“Sire,” one of the serving boys appeared at the Kings right. Jaskier shot him a glare that clearly read _back off._ They were paid a pretty penny, but they were annoying as fuck, and the King only gave them orders. He’d considered posing as one of them, but he’d never have gotten any real information then. Not like he had in this role.

“Apologises for interrupting,” the boy stammered at Jaskier’s glare, “but it appears that Yennefer of Veneburg’s guest this evening is currently in disguise. She told me he was Geralt of Rivia.”

It was a sudden shift. One moment, Jaskier felt playful, mischievous – taking it seriously of course, but revelling in just how _good_ he was at it. The next the very blood in his veins felt turned to ice.

_Why would Yennefer have…_

The King leaned forward, a greedy look plastering his pampered little face, “Why! That’s even better than we thought. By the end of tonight, we’ll have all the Resistance's secrets _and_ princess Cirilla’s whereabouts. You’ve done well, young Aeksy. Go, bring me some more cute little songs you drag from our dear guests.”

_Ciri._

Ciri with her beautiful laugh and her untameable power and bright eyes.

Ciri who braided Jaskier’s hair and made Geralt smile and made Yennefer go soft at the edges.

Ciri who was, without a shadow of a doubt, one of the best things to ever happen to Jaskier, to any of them.

The King wanted _Ciri._

“Dear Buttercup, you’ve gone awfully pale. Afraid of a little Witcher?”

Jaskier swallowed, forced himself into action. The jewelled choker felt somehow heavier around his neck. “I’ve never seen one up close.” He forced himself to speak, and he didn’t have to pretend at the slight shake in his voice. “I was just dancing with him. What if he had hurt me?”

“I’ll protect you, pretty thing,” The King trailed his fingers down the length of Jaskier’s arm, “It’s good he’s here. You’re about to see them all dance for me.”

“Why, they’re dancing now,” Jaskier pointed to the dance floor. Always best to play dumb to the King – he took rather a lot of joy brandishing the knowledge he held over people like a knife wielded to cut.

“You’re cute,” the King squeezed Jaskier’s cheek like one might a child's. Jaskier had to hide the sneer of disgust he wanted to make, “but that’s not what I meant. Come here, love,” He pulled Jaskier close, his breath hot and wet against Jaskier’s ear, “I’ve slipped a special herb into the wine tonight. They’ll tell us all their precious little secrets and be powerless to stop themselves.” He pulled back, “Impressed?”

Jaskier struggled, managed to plaster a fake grin on aching cheeks, “You’re very clever, my Lord.”

“Indeed,” The King’s eyes sparkled, clearly rather proud of himself.

Jaskier wanted to kick him. Hard. In the balls.

He settled for rubbing a hand over the man's arm.

He could do nothing from up here.

Geralt and Yennefer would realise. They were smart. They would fix this.

They would fix this.

They had to.

-///-

Now that they had made the connection, it was so obvious what was going on that they were clearly damn fools not to see it earlier.

There were young boys – much like the one who had questioned Yennefer – near nearly every prominent attendees in the room. Acting painstakingly polite, they were offering more _wine,_ laughing at the right jokes, near-constant smiles on their little faces. So young and so innocent looking – how could they fail to put anyone at ease? And every now and then they’d flitter back to their King and whisper in his ear. His little birds, telling him all the secrets they’d scratched from their unknowing victims.

And there, at the King's feet, Jaskier sat. He was a vision in blue, stunning, relaxed like some overfed lap cat – except for hunting eyes that were darting from boy to boy. He noticed too, then. Good. It was better they all knew what they were dealing with.

Yet Geralt’s vision felt near tunnelled towards the absent hand the King had in his bard's hair, working his way through strands like Jaskier was some precious jewel to flaunt.

Geralt wanted to cut that hand clean off.

_No._

They’d trusted Jaskier to play his part. And now they _had_ to trust him. Jaskier might be the only non-drugged member of the resistance in the whole damn palace. Geralt and Yennefer were compromised. They couldn’t risk getting closer to the King - not with information on Cirilla ready and waiting on their lips should they be asked a question.

Mass panic would do no fucking good here, that had been decided with a bare glance between himself and Yennefer. If people all but ran screaming to the doors they’d no doubt be caught, dragged off to the dungeons to be integrated by far nastier men than the paid boys currently doing the King's dirty work.

And thus Geralt and Yennefer were set about in a dance. This was one that was more than the simple pattern played out on the floor before them by twirling nobles in delicate silks. A heel turn to miss a boy here, a step to dodge the questions of some inquisitive attendee there. They moved across the room in tandem, to keep themselves from coming into contact with a partner they did not wish to engage with.

It was shit work, and something Geralt wouldn’t quite put in his list of expertise. This was the kind of thing Jaskier did well, or Yennefer, but not him. A sword was not always useful, strength only went as far as the question of violence was raised. There was no use fighting here – something like this could not be beaten by a sword for all his instincts ached to do so.

No, tonight he had to trust in Yennefer.

Dark purple nails dug deep into Geralt’s elbow and, every time he glanced away from Jaskier against the King's leg, he could see the slight absence to her violet eyes. It was the only sign that she was currently partaking in magic. She was powerful, he knew. Oh, so powerful. He would never get the image of her on the floor, chest bare, screaming, holding the djinn in her grasp as the world came apart around her. And yet this was delicate threadwork she was performing now, selective telepathy—and, well, Geralt had no fucking clue if it was easy or not, but he couldn’t imagine it would be.

He backstepped them out of the way of another of the boys carrying wine trays, her body coming half flush against his at the movement. Her breaths were hidden pants against the front of his dress shirt, her lips strained downwards in the effort.

Geralt’s eyes glanced upwards once more. Nothing changed. People were still talking, quite happily, still enjoying one another's company, no idea what little secrets were leaving their lips. Against the Kings leg, Jaskier had not moved, but he looked a little stiffer. His eyes met Geralt’s and he had known him long enough to know that the bard was telling him to hurry without any need for his blathering words.

And then—

A woman he had met at one of the safe houses they’d stayed at with Ciri on the way to Kaer Morhen moved towards the door. He saw the change. He saw the sudden look in her eyes. He saw the bow she took as she made her way to the exit, slowly but with purpose.

Then another.

Then another.

It was a trickling effect, but it was _working._

Geralt let his eyes fall back to Yen. Her features were flushed, but there were the beginnings of a smile curling bright red lips. His fingers brushed over her cheek in gentle reassurance. He was shit when it came to that sort of thing but the way that she leaned into his touch just so was an answer enough to his unsaid question.

She’d managed it.

They were going to get out of here, back to Ciri.

And then Geralt was _never_ coming to a damn court again. It always ended in a fucking disaster. He wasn’t built for palaces and castles and finery. Jaskier and Yennefer might be, but he was not.

But for now, at least…they were fine. He pulled back from Yennefer slightly, watching another man leave the room without causing a fuss.

They’d be fine.

And then—

Someone dropped a goblet.

The noise was loud, shattering, and the lute stopped its gentle plucking from the corner. Wine spread like blood across the polished floor, trickling around the feet of a few of the (now stationary) dancers, their partners making desperate bids to steady their bodies so that they didn’t slip in the running pool.

“You _bastard._ ”

Ah, _fuck._

The resistance had to it some fine men indeed, Geralt had been reassured numerous times, but fine or not a great many of them were born from some form of nobility. Entitled. Arrogant. Ignorant. _Stupid._

The man making his steps through deep red to reach the throne was one of them, “You think you can _drug us_ and get _away with it?_ The most powerful people in the realm here and you wish to test your might against them?”

Yennefer let out an exasperated sigh. Geralt felt inclined to do the same.

Well, _fuck._

“Ah! It took you less time than I expected to work it out!” The king clapped his hand like a child playing a game, “Guards!” And the doors to the hall swung shut with a resounding _thud,_ swords withdrawn from the sheaths of the men in full plate armour guarding them with less flourish and more skill than would be expected from some simple court-trained guards.

Those guards might be wearing the red, blue and yellow that were this Kingdom’s colours, but they weren’t from here.

_Nilfguardians._

“Well, I _was_ hoping this evening could go smoothly,” the King finally untangled his hand from Jaskier’s hair, snapping his fingers, “but we must have contingency plans now, don’t we? If you won’t play party games, we’ll have to ask you questions each.”

“What makes you think you can get away with this?” the noble-born who had stepped forward was young. A summer child, barely into his manhood.

In Geralt’s most humble opinion, the resistance should vet for shit like this.

“Oh my boy,” The king laughed, and it was a bitter sound. “I already have! And better yet—the famed Geralt of Rivia is here! Your prophesied little saviour of the realm will be in our hands soon – I just have to ask Geralt where he is hiding his dear child surprise.”

Geralt growled.

Yennefer stiffened, shifted her hands.

The decision was near-instantaneous. Yennefer’s eyes met Geralt’s as the two of them shared a nod. Geralt’s hand dropped to where his sword was hidden in the folds of his cloak.

“ _Now,_ ” Yennefer’s voice broke through the room.

Geralt's sword was drawn in the same fraction of a second that Yennefer used to push her hands out, the doors that had thudded shut a moment ago banging open with a gust of wind.

“Run!” she all but screamed, the command in her voice clear. Her hand shifted to create a portal. Geralt’s unceremoniously pushed a few stagnant resistance members through it.

“Get them shut! Get them shut!” the King shouted. “The mages! Get the mages!”

Chaos.

People running. The spilt wine was creeping further across the floor. Those who knew how to fight took up arms. Those who didn’t ducked close to mages. Bodies were shoved unceremoniously through portals or towards the open doors.

A woman's scream echoed in his ears as Geralt ducked his body beneath the sword of a Nilfguardian guard.

Because of _course_ there were Nilfguardian guards here.

Geralt’s sword was a comforting weight in hands, but was the only comfort in this situation. Kicked in his side, he chose to remain steady on his feet, turning to see just whose foot had knocked the air out of him. His sword flashed through the air as though it were not made of thick, heavy steel that it was.

_Mistake._

The one that kicked him pounced again, this time catching him in the jaw. They were unarmed, but fast. And stupid. Geralt ducked again, then pulled his sword upwards and through the softness of their stomach. A wounded noise erupted from his assailant as their hands clutched their stomach, as if trying to keep their guts inside. They failed.

Geralt wiped his brow. _Fuck._ There was blood in his mouth, and still a ringing scream in his ears. He’d lost sight of Yennefer somewhere in the crowd, the purple of her gown swallowed by the increasing panic and clash of swords well met.

Geralt thought nothing of the sword he placed through the Nilfguardians neck. Then another. Then another. Swift. Brutal. Done.

The confusion granted one blessing at least; no time for taking advantage of their loose tongues.

Geralt shifted back as a blade flew past his face, lodging itself in the forehead of a court member behind him. “Geralt,” Yennefer’s voice cut through the raucous. She’d thrown the knife. Her hair was a tumble about her face, her forehead coated with a sheen of sweat. She was undeniably beautiful. “Get Jaskier and get out. I’ll meet you when I can.”

Her lips met his, hot as fire. He knew that the kiss wasn’t a goodbye, nor good luck, but the burst of energy she needed to fling a few approaching guards against the wall.

A portal appeared and she stepped back into it. And then she was gone.

Jaskier. He had to get Jaskier.

The spilled wine was mingled with darker stains now, blood seeping across the floor. 

As people fled the hall and more dead fell to the ground, the atmosphere became less crowded. Geralt focused towards the head of the room. The King had sat in his chair through the entire fight, smug, but Geralt’s eyes fell aside the throne.

Jaskier stood behind the King now, looking far, far too delicate for a ballroom-turned-battlefield. It took Geralt’s attention for a moment, the juxtaposition of it: Jaskier in fine women's clothing, a beauty stood at the head of a room littered with spilt blood, split wine. 

Jaskier’s lips began to form words:

_Watch out-_

And—

Four guards were suddenly on him. Grasping his arms, they pulled him back. He struggled as his wrist was twisted just so, so much that his sword fell out of his hands and clattered to the floor.

Pushing him forward, the guards were laughing. Geralt was going to tear their throats out.

“Ah! The Witcher! Shame that this evening has gone to such waste, but what a welcome sight you are! The one I most needed to impress our dear friends at Nilfguard, walking right through my doors. Buttercup, dear? Watch and learn.” The King was still within arms reach of Jaskier. Too close.

Geralt could see how the taut line of Jaskier’s bodice was, barely moving with the bard’s breaths.

“Oh? Can’t pull your eyes away from my beauty, can you? I’m sure a pig like you has never had the pleasure of something so fine, hm? And now, I don’t think you ever will.”

Geralt growled again, struggled against the grips of the men, but they were vigilant, holding tight. Jaskier’s scowl was dark enough to match the one curling Geralt’s lips. His Bard had never been able to meet attacks on Geralt’s person well, for whatever reason. Though somehow, Geralt didn’t think that he’d have the time to start a bar brawl here.

No. He should stay quiet. Play the game. Not draw attention.

Geralt shook his head minutely in a warning. He watched as Jaskier’s eyes darken at the warning, and then turned his gaze back to the King.

The room had all but cleared now: the attendants taken by portal, doors or death. There was nobody to call aid from.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Yennefer would have to get Ciri. She _would_ get to Ciri, once she realised that Geralt was nowhere to be found. She’d get Ciri and go. He’d give it all up and he wouldn’t be able to fucking stop himself – not unless he could find something sharp to pierce his own breast. The hands holding his arms prevented such measures.

 _Fuck._ He couldn’t fail her. Not Ciri. She had lost too much in her life, was too precious, was too powerful. Fuck whether or not the continent needed her alive. She deserved to live. She deserved to have more than a fuck up for a father who was about to play right into the trick this king had up his sleeve.

“Now, Witcher, tell me where your child supri—"

The sentence was cut off.

A gasp of breath.

An odd gurgle.

Blood. Bright red splatters of blood spilling from the sudden open gash on the King’s neck.

And a woman in blue, a jewelled choker at her neck, her hair tied in ribbons, the fabric of her dress frayed where she’d torn the side to retrieve the dagger hidden in her skirts, pulled the knife from the King’s neck.

“Well, that’s a bitch. I really liked this dress – don’t suppose you think Yennefer will know a spell for getting blood out?”

_Jaskier._

-///-

Jaskier _had_ been hoping the night wouldn’t end in violence. _Hoping_ being the operative word. But in all the time he’d been travelling with a Witcher, a Mage and a child of unknown-levels-of-power, he’d learnt it best to be prepared.

Besides, a knife within the folds of your skirt? Infinitely sexier than the dress itself. And that was saying something, this dress was _gorgeous._

Or it _had_ been gorgeous before he’d had to ruin it so. Frayed silk and blood stains—and here he’d hoped he could keep it, if for nothing else than the way that it had made his lovers look at him.

Ah well, you couldn’t win them all.

What he _could_ win, was this. It was breaking his cover a bit, but they were quite past that. There was no way they were making it out of here without making a scene. The scene had already been made: swords flying, mages using their magic to get themselves _out._

No point in keeping this piece of shit king alive.

 _Especially_ not if Cirilla’s safety was in question.

Besides, this way the King never had to be disappointed when his dear Buttercup didn’t show up for their evening plans.

In fact, he’d never be disappointed about missing evening plans again.

Just like he’d never insult Jaskier’s Witcher again.

The sudden distraction of the stabbing bought Geralt the time to free himself of the guards. Jaskier tossed him the dagger, let him finish off his work (he didn’t _mind_ getting blood on his hands _exactly,_ but he’d rather _not._ That was for Geralt).

When the rest of the guards were nothing but corpses on the floor, Jaskier let out a short laugh. He reached his hand up to undo a few of the ribbons, letting his hair fall loose once more. It was nice, the longer style, but he might cut it after this.

“Well, that was certainly something.” Whoever had been left alive had already fled. It was just them now, them and a bunch of dead bodies. “Fun, although you guys kind of ruined the point of spy work. Ah, well, still got quite a bit of information on Nilfguards plans I suppose.”

Geralt had not stopped staring at him.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” Jaskier lifted his hand to his cheek, “Ah, shit, I _do_ have something on my face. Oh, ew, blood, okay. We all need a bath when we get back. Who knew slitting a throat would be so _messy_?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled.

“Honestly, I can’t believe he managed to keep his mouth shut about all this. He told us near everything. He liked to brag to us silly girls—oh, did you see where my sister-concubines went because I was rather hoping to say goodbye—”

“Jaskier.”

“--They weren’t that bad really. I mean, they were a bit annoyed that I was holding out on the sex, but really, that was more to keep my cover than anything—”

“ _Jaskier.”_

“What?”

And then, Geralt was there, right in front of him, sweaty from the fighting and covered in his fair share of blood too. And all of that seemed completely irrelevant when he pulled Jaskier forward and _kissed_ him. Right there in that bloody banquet hall, surrounded by bodies and split wine.

Jaskier couldn’t say he minded.

He couldn’t say he minded one bit.

“Hm, you really _do_ have a thing for the dress don’t you?” He purred, “Don’t even lie. That’s more than just your usual _thank-god-my-bard-is-alive_ kiss. I know all your kisses by now, dearheart.” Jaskier sighed, pulled back, “Unfortunately, I’m not going to be making love to you in a room full of bloody bodies. We need to get back to our girls.”

“Hm, wait,” Jaskier did. He stayed still as Geralt’s hands moved down to the blue choker. Jaskier made an inquisitive noise until there was a sharp rip and it came off, Geralt throwing it behind him into the pool of the king's blood. “You’re not a _dog._ You’re not collared. And you’re not _his._ ”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Jealous?”

“Of a dead man?”

“You were doing a lot of growling,” Jaskier smirked.

All that Geralt dignified that with was a ‘hm’. Jaskier was pretty sure that proved his point, actually, but he let it slide.

Because they needed to see Ciri. Nobody had spilt the beans, but it had been a close call. Neither man would be content until they could see with their own eyes that she was fine. Jaskier hadn’t seen her in nearly a _month,_ after all, and Geralt and Yennefer were probably _nightmares_ to deal with without Jaskier’s presence, he was certain.

At his side Geralt grunted, reaching for Jaskier’s hand, “After you, m’lady.”

Jaskier’s laugh echoed throughout the hall.

-///-

“There’s nothing you can do for it?” Jaskier pouted.

Yennefer rolled her eyes. Their dear bard seemed more perturbed about the state of his dress than the fact that he’d just killed royalty in cold blood. 

Of course, she was rather glad that he _had._ It would be a shit show for politics - no doubt Nilfguard would simply claim the whole land which would cause immense trouble for their cause. But letting Nilfguard have a Kingdom was secondary. Cirilla’s safety? That was what mattered. More than anything. Geralt shouldn’t have ever gotten close to the king in the first place, but he had, and so Jaskier’s dagger had been the instrument which saved Ciri’s life.

Ciri herself was sleeping now in her own room, wrapped in furs beside a roaring fire. She’d been overjoyed to see Jaskier, falling into the bard's arms despite the blood and gore on his dress. Yennefer wouldn’t admit to the wave of warmth that came from seeing them reunite and thankfully she didn’t _have_ to. Whatever had been put in the wine had worn off by the time they’d arrived here.

To be safe, they’d moved themselves to the small cottage Triss owned on the Redania coast – a safe house, at least for a few days while they collected their wits, went over the letters and the information Jaskier had collected for them. Hopefully, a clue about what to do next would be tucked somewhere within them.

And of course, staying in a safe house came with the added bonus of having their own room to lounge in.

“I didn’t realise dresses were your style, bard,” Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him.

“Anything is my style, my darling mage. I could wear a potato sack and use Roach’s dung as conditioner and you’d still fall deeply in love with me. Besides, gender boundaries constrain a man's soul! Men never get silk this fine made for them,” and then he winked, his hands sliding through her hair, “and you two _like_ it.”

Yennefer pursed her lips, not confirming but not denying either. No doubt they’d end up with a few dresses picked up for the bard, if he truly had taken to them. As long as he didn’t steal hers, they’d have no problem.

No problem at all.

He _did_ look good in them. Stunning, actually.

No need to inflate his ego though, now there was no longer anything compelling her to speak what was truly on her mind.

Besides, Geralt was already doing _quite_ enough admiring for the both of them. Oh, he hadn’t _spoken_ about it but he’d barely taken his eyes off the bard, even with the dress frayed and bloodied as it was. He was hardly being _subtle_ about his interest in Jaskier’s current outfit.

“We’ll get you more,” she allowed, finally, and ducked her own lips to the brightness of his smile when he heard her comment.

“Excellent! I think I could really pull off something big and _yellow._ Like _Buttercups._ ” He giggled. Yennefer rolled her eyes.

“Yes, yes. Fine. Out of those though.”

Jaskier went back to pouting as she stripped him of the clothes he was wearing, though he seemed to cheer up considerably when she snapped her fingers and summoned a bath.

“Oh, _fuck_ _yes,_ ” he groaned sinking into it. She pretended she didn’t find that incredibly endearing.

It took a few hours. A few hours to get them all settled in the bed together - (and even longer for them to be _properly_ settled. They hadn’t seen each other in a month after all, and Geralt tended to get a certain way when someone flirted with her or Jaskier.

Hence the line of dark purpling bruises up both her and Jaskier’s necks when they finally came to a rest, panting and sweaty, Jaskier settled between his two lovers, leaning against Geralt’s chest with Yennefer’s arm slung over his waist from behind.

“Admit it then. I didn’t fuck it up. I’m an _excellent_ spy,” Jaskier yawned against the purple bruising on Geralt’s side.

Geralt hummed, as did Yennefer.

“Ugh, that truth thing really _did_ wear off, didn’t it? Shame, there was so _much_ I could have gotten out of you both. Alas, you’ve escaped my evil plans this time.” He gently nudged Geralt with his finger.

Yennefer pressed his lips across his bare shoulder to settle him, felt him shiver slightly under the touch.

“I missed you both so much,” the bard murmured, “fucking King was a right handsy bastard – _and_ he was annoying. He thought he was so much smarter than _everyone_.”

“And let me guess, he didn’t let you talk much?” Yennefer asked.

“No! _He_ was always the one doing the explaining. It was a fucking nightmare.”

Yennefer sighed. Jaskier was going to be insufferable, as he made up for the lost time without rambling on. 

“Go to sleep, dearheart,” she murmured, “go to sleep.”

And so, they did.

-///-

In the end, the information Jaskier had managed to procure for them was rather vital. 

And - more importantly, according to Jaskier - in the end, Jaskier _did_ end up with more dresses. 

A lot more dresses.

Of _course_ he did.

**Author's Note:**

> This was an absolute JOY to write. Genuinely had fun with every second of it - I hope you did too! Honestly, The ENTIRE plot was just an excuse to have Jaskier wear a dress tbh, because that is my number one fav thing atm. I'm thinking about possibly doing a smutty sequel to this one if I'm brave but if not a smutty sequel, defo more where Jaskier is wearing similar outfits. He'd just *clenches fist* look so GOOD in them. 
> 
> Shoutout to my absolutely glorious beta (particularly for help with the fight scene) I love you so much (even if you shout abuse at me down the phone for the use of various adjectives while you're editing my fics)
> 
> All your comments and Kudos fill me with life and are hugely appreciated!
> 
> Come hang out with me on tumblr: [@Jaskier-wearing-dresses](https://jaskier-wearing-dresses.tumblr.com/) !


End file.
